Frustrated Geek - An ocomik.net 2.0 site

I stare at a blank screen on my laptop, the 21st century equivalent of the blank page. I avert my eyes and search the recesses of my brain. Nothing. I have writers block.

I want to write but I just can't. Things have been happening but nothing that I can find of any significance that extracts a story. It's frustrating.

Every thought, recent memory, doesn't excite the mechanism that makes me want to type hundreds of words attempting to relate a specific moment in time.

I crack a smile as I realize that this post is just a ruse, i.e. writing about writers block as a way to break the damn. It seems somewhat trite. Like the pickup artist whose line for getting ladies is not to have a line. How transparent and weak.

Anytime I have writers block it takes me back to that scene in Finding Forester. Sean Connery says to his young study, "Just write, don't think, just write." In many ways that describes my problem. Too much thinking and not enough writing, yet I can't get up the willpower to just type. I want to write in proof mode not draft and I'm pretty sure that can be detrimental to the process.

I've also been told that reading can be a great way to prime the writing pump but lately that just makes me want to read more and write less.

So where am I by the end of this post? Maybe not much farther than when I started but at least I was able to get something down on this darn screen.

Posted by ocomik at 03:27 PM | Permalink

He's was starting to question almost everything about his life. Who he was? What he was becoming? Was the unraveling of his personal relationships a direct result of his own actions or the failures of others to accept him as he really was.

He inhaled and let the smoke fill his lungs. Silently counting to ten, three-one thousand, four-one thousand, until he felt the all familiar heavyness in his chest and then he exhaled.

Why the hell did everything need to be so complicated? Sure she didn't approve of the path he'd chosen for his life but after all it was his life and he damn sure deserved every opportunity to live it without any fear of reprisal. It wasn't too long ago that she had done the same.

Leaving smalltown, middle-America in 1955 to set off on her own adventure at the tender age of eighteen. Moving to the big city almost three hundred miles away. She was the oldest daughter, ruled by an overprotective father whose very actions had borne within her a rebellious streak.

She'd never looked back and although he admired that about her, he also resented how he was being punished for the very same thing.

He took another toke and felt the effects of the first hit start to come on. There'd be no answers this evening but a least he'd have peace, if only for this brief moment.

Posted by ocomik at 02:18 PM | Permalink